I was hoping to update this twice while I was on vacation, but got a bit busier than expected in the latter half of the week. More will be along soon! Thanks everyone for the feedback on the first two chapters. I may not have managed to respond to every comment individually as usual, but each of them were most sincerely appreciated!

Dreamcatcher
Part III

The space between his muscles and his bones ached the next time he saw her. It was a pain that was dull but deeper than skin, far too complicated to be encompassed by any sort of visual surface abrasion.

Walt had always been drawn to Vic, and that hadn't changed even as he allowed their relationship to deteriorate before his eyes. He had convinced himself that distance was the only way to keep her safe, and to stop himself from losing perspective and missing the clues next time someone else was in trouble. He'd been so focused on her, back then, it would be a lie to say he didn't blame himself for what happened to Branch.

Had he abandoned the younger man to his own devices after the incident where he'd dared to lay a hand on Vic? Walt thought he'd been supporting Branch, following through with the investigation regarding David Ridges even when it seemed too outlandish to be true, but had his motives in doing so merely served his own selfish needs?

Talking about this with the therapist was somewhat counterproductive, as it always brought them back around to Vic— a topic he'd been even less willing to breach since having that dream. It wasn't a pleasant feature of Walt's current existence, all his instincts screaming for him to get closer while the seemingly impenetrable wall of logic he'd built around himself insisted that he push her away. Vic had found a path around his defenses anyhow, seeping into his subconscious and soaking into unfathomable parts of him like rain. He couldn't control the way she made him feel, and all those tendons and ligaments that were ready and waiting to spring his body into action were sore from the force of holding fast.

A call had come in just after lunchtime. Having received the details from Ruby Vic had evidently determined that it was nothing she couldn't handle on her own and elected to answer it solo instead of asking him to go along or, indeed, bothering to inform him at all. As a matter of fact, Walt never became aware that his deputy had left the building for anything other than a trip down the street to the Busy Bee until he heard a gasp and panicked exhortations from Ruby drifting through his half-open office door. There were some banging noises, a few distinctly male grumbles, and the sound of the jail cell being slammed shut and locked.

"I'm fine, Ruby. Just…" Vic's voice was a loud whisper. "Stop fussing, okay? It's nothing."

He was out into the main station room in no time flat, and he could tell even from looking at the back of his deputy's head that she was well past irritated and likely cruising in the fast lane toward really pissed off. There was a surly, stocky, leather-vested man occupying the lone jail cell, swaying from one foot to the other in a possibly drunken rhythm. One of Vic's hands was up near her forehead, held there as though the whole situation was giving her a headache, and Ruby was fixing her with a wide-eyed look.

Walt crossed his arms over his chest. "What's nothing?"

It seemed like it was sheer reflex that caused Vic to turn toward him, and she breathed out a curse word as his eyes landed on the bloody rag being held against her left temple just above the tiny scar near her eyebrow which served as a constant reminder of the events at Chance Gilbert's place. She lifted the cloth away, revealing a small but energetically bleeding laceration. The side of Vic's face was streaked with blood, and there was some matted in the blonde hair by her ear.

Uncrossing his arms, Walt took a step forward without even thinking. "What the hell happened?"

Vic rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, returning pressure to the injury. "This jackass and his four bonehead biker buddies were getting a bit rowdy after a few too many early bird tequilas down at that new Mexican place."

She walked past him as if that was a satisfactory explanation, presumably on her way to the reading room for some fresh first aid supplies. He followed close on her heels. "You wanna explain how you ended up with that?"

Turning on the taps, she leaned over the sink and briefly caught his eye in the small mirror above it. "Not really, no."

Her tone brooked no argument, but the twist of dread in the bottom of his stomach was unwilling to accept that as an answer. He perched his hands on his hips. "Vic."

"They didn't like having their fun interrupted, so this uncooperative shithead decided to throw a pint glass at me. It shattered against the wall and one of the shards hit me. Fuck…" Wetting down the corner of a clean hand towel, Vic began to dab at the blood on the side of her face in jerky motions.

Walt shook his head from side to side, trying to un-muddle his thoughts.

I don't make my uncle Al's lasagna for uncooperative shitheads who don't put out.

Her back to him, those echoing words, the surge of adrenaline when he saw that she was injured, it all combined to make him want to do things that he knew he absolutely couldn't. To distract himself, he stepped further into the room and reached up on the shelf for the government mandated first aid kit.

"Why didn't you call for back up? That place is right down the street, I could have been there in two minutes."

He grasped her shoulder, feeling her spine stiffen as he gently but firmly turned her to face him.

"It wasn't a big deal, Walt."

She flinched as he took the damp towel from her, setting it aside as he rummaged for the antiseptic wipes.

"You said there were five of them."

It was almost impressive, the way Vic managed to avoid eye contact even as Walt carefully swiped the medicated fabric around the injured area. He could smell her hair, fresh and enticing but not overwhelmingly feminine, as she tilted her head back to make his job easier. It was a weak reverberation of how they used to smooth the way for each other, a ghostly memory of their instinctive partnership.

"They were idiots."

Vic made a small pained noise as Walt wiped the blood from the edges of the small gash. With the worst cleared away, he was able to take a swab and apply some topical ointment.

"I should have been with you."

It didn't come out sounding like he'd wanted it to. It came out gruff and angry, and he wasn't sure if that sentiment was directed at her or toward himself. He was trying to say one thing, but somewhere between his brain and his mouth it transformed into something else. For a moment, Walt hoped that Vic wouldn't notice. His hopes in this case, just like so many others in his recent span of existence, were disappointed.

"What the hell for? You already cut me deeper than they ever could."

His fingers froze in the middle of applying the butterfly closure. A slow wire of deer-in-the-headlights eye contact commenced, both of them obviously aware of what had just been summoned into the air between them. Vic chewed the inside of her lip, eyes flickering over Walt's features and lingering on his mouth for longer than would be considered normal or appropriate. It lit a spark in him, fanned the flames of hope that maybe— just maybe— she still felt it, too.

Walt leaned closer, one hand propped on the edge of the sink and the other tentatively folding around her wrist in a loose clutch. "Vic, I'm—"

"No. I can't do this."

Vic jerked away from Walt's grasp and slid her lithe form out from between his body and the sink. Walt was left with the image of himself in the mirror, breathing rapidly and wishing he could stop the physical reactions of his body from telegraphing the symptoms of what was plainly still lodged in his heart.

He showed up at the door that night without knowing what he was planning to say or do. He told himself he just wanted to check on Vic, to make sure she was okay and her injury was properly cared for. There was a level of stubbornness that Walt knew he had met and exceeded, drowning out the little voice that told him that his actions were awkward, potentially inflammatory, and pathetically transparent.

Removing his hat and rubbing at the hair just above the collar of his jacket, Walt raised his hand to knock at the door. It appeared that his daughter and his deputy were home; the lights were on inside, and both Vic's truck and Cady's Jeep were parked outside. Before his closed fist could meet with the surface of the door, it swung open to reveal Vic. She jumped at the sight of him, lips parting in momentary shock, obviously not anticipating his presence there.

The butterfly bandage, now protected by a skin colored band-aid, was barely noticeable in the overall scheme of her appearance. Her hair fell in loose golden curls, the type that looked so natural but took women hours to achieve. She was wearing makeup, a fact which was significant in and of itself without taking into account the perfectly smoky eyes and pouting pink lips.

Vic tilted her head to the side, one hand on her denim-clad hip with the fingers splayed over the form-fitting material of her front pocket. Walt realized he had been staring, and the eye-catching but tasteful v-neck of her thin black sweater wasn't helping matters. Her eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Hey," he hazarded.

Pressing her lips together, Vic recovered from her initial surprise. "Hey. You have dinner plans with Cady or something? I was just leaving, so I'll be out of your way." She brushed some hair away from her cheek, twisting to call over her shoulder. "Cady, your dad is here!"

Walt shook his head, palming the crown of his hat with one hand as he twisted the brim with the other. "No, actually… I came to make sure you were alright."

"I'm fine. Hence the fact that I'm going out." She stepped across the threshold and circumnavigated him with two agile strides, revealing heeled ankle-boots which matched the familiar whiskey-hued leather jacket gripped in her right hand.

One of his legs splayed out as he adjusted his stance to mirror hers, frustration likely evident. "Vic, I think we need to—"

She looked at her wrist, doubtless just as aware as he was that she wasn't wearing a watch. "Well would you look at that? I'm gonna be late if I don't hurry. See you later, Walt."

Her heels clicked loudly on the pavement as she walked away from him, yet again.

"Dad?" As the tail lights of Vic's truck faded into the night, Cady appeared in the doorway.

There was no point in trying to justify himself, no honest way to explain his presence away. He hated himself for addressing his own daughter like she was witness to some kind of crime. "Where is she going?"

Cady fixed him with a sad smile, crossing her arms over her chest in a way eerily reminiscent of his own mannerisms. For a moment he thought she might not dignify his question with an answer, and he really wouldn't have blamed her.

"Well considering Durant's nightlife options on a Thursday basically amount to the Red Pony or the Mexican cantina where she got sliced earlier, I will venture a guess and assume Vic is on her way to the Pony." Her raised eyebrows communicated judgement, but without the edge of hostility he might have deserved.

"Thanks, Punk." He turned on his heel and stalked back to the Bronco before the tide of his daughter's opinion had a chance to turn against him.

Walt knew he couldn't follow Vic anywhere in his agitated temperamental state. He didn't want to go home, and obviously the Red Pony— where he might have otherwise gone to blow off a little steam— was off limits. He headed back to his stalwart refuge, the sheriff's station, and entered his darkened office through the private door.

Slumping into his chair, Walt leaned his head back and tried to pull the reins on a mind that was more unquiet than any time in recent memory. It was such a mess, mostly of his own making, and all he could manage to see was that image of Vic with her perfect hair and makeup on her way to somewhere or something that unambiguously did not include him. He fidgeted in the chair, unable to get comfortable, leaning forward with his palms splayed on top of some neglected paperwork.

It was barely seven o'clock, but the combination of emotional exhaustion and brain-beating denial caused Walt to fall out of consciousness with his forehead pressed against the surface of his desk...

Hey, do you know where my new shirt is? The blue one. I can't seem to find it.

A blonde ponytail whips to one side, pulled high and tight with just a few wisps escaping at the nape of a slender neck as she stands in front of the sink filling up the kettle.

Why does it need to be blue? It's only fucking traffic court anyway.

The tan cotton of her shirt is familiar and comforting as he watches the toned planes of her back shift below it, his fingers tingling with sense memory of the warm and silky expanses hidden within.

It doesn't have to be blue but it should be new— SOMEONE gave the mayor's son a debatable speeding ticket accompanied by what could be construed as verbal abuse last week, and I've got to save face for the Absaroka Sheriff's Department.

He can see her smile through the back of her head. He isn't sure how he knows it's there, but he does. He longs to kiss that smile right off her face.

I'm so sorry.

She doesn't sound sorry at all. She turns around, leaning back against the edge of the sink with a brief flash of teeth and the devil in her eyes.

You'll never have a chance of taking over my job when I retire if you keep causing so much trouble.

She reaches forward and digs her fingers into the space between his jeans and his belt buckle, tugging his unresisting body toward her. The unspoken message is that she LIKES making trouble, and has no intention of changing her ways.

I think I know how to make it up to you.

One slender hand blazes a path from his breastbone, down his naked torso to the decorated silver clasp. A hot, open-mouthed, blatantly suggestive kiss is placed just beneath his belly button as she drops to her knees, and he knows his surrender is complete.

Well, if you insist…

Every nerve tingled as Walt jerked awake, unable or unwilling to push the images away. He bit back a growl, fighting the wild impulses and pressing his palm against the traitorously throbbing erection inside his jeans. The clock on the wall told him that it was just after nine o'clock now, and with a long night of myriad torments laid out before him he could envision no other option but to see with his own eyes. Snatching his hat off the coat rack, Walt charged out the door and down the station stairs, set on a breakneck course for the Red Pony.

Oh deary me, Walt is putting himself through the wringer and Vic isn't exactly helping. Of course, after their talk in the alleyway who can really blame her? What will Walt find at the Red Pony? Will he dump a pitcher of sangria over Eamonn's head if Vic is confiding in him? And just what was Vic thinking about while Walt was patching up her cut, anyway? Tune in next time to find out… :D